end
by onceuponaplot
Summary: hunger games au / Bucky thinks all of this as he stands on his pedestal and stares out at the other twenty-three tributes and wonders what he did to deserve this a second time. He studies the faces around him, all the other victors who have had their hard-earned peace torn away by the second Quarter Quell. It's just not fair.


_Originally posted in November 2014 as part of a 30 day writing challenge on Archive of Our Own._

* * *

No one's really sure, even all these years later, how Steven Grant Rogers won his Games. It's not like he was the picture of a Hunger Games victor: he wasn't tall or strong or a genius at first glance.

If the Capitol and Gamemakers know, they help to keep the secret, because the mystery keeps the nation enthralled for years. Steven Rogers has been paraded around as the face of the Games ever since, a true example of how a little guy can come out on top if he follows the Capitol's rules.

All Bucky really knows is that Rogers disappeared the first day of his Games and wasn't seen again except in small bits and snippets, far from the other tributes until the very end. Bucky remembers the hard set of Rogers' jaw, only fourteen, as he appeared from the fog on that final day. Remembers the bright red spray as he struck, lightning fast, at the other tribute. He remembers the death was quick, that Rogers watched the life drain from the other boy with dead, flat eyes.

Rogers on his victory tour was bright and enthusiastic and everything expected of a victor.

But his eyes. His eyes were different. Sad.

Bucky has thought about Rogers' Games dozens – hundreds – of times. It's easier, he supposes, than thinking of his own. Bucky doesn't like remembering the feel of tacky blood on his hands, the terror and fury that engulfed him in the arena. It's easier to separate himself from the violence when it's not his own nightmare, he supposes.

Bucky thinks of all this as he stands on his pedestal and stares out at the other twenty-three tributes and wonders what he did to deserve this a second time.

He studies the faces around him, all the other victors who have had their hard-earned peace torn away by the second Quarter Quell.

It's just not fair.

Bucky's sick of the Capitol, sick of the Games. Sick of the way, even now, he's no freer than he was back when his biggest concern was finding a way to put food on the table for another day.

Rogers is three spaces down from him, and even now Bucky can't really believe the changes the Capitol have made over the years. Gone is the scrawny child who survived for weeks alone in the Hunger Games. In his place is a man who stands taller than Bucky, easily twice Bucky's weight with the amount of muscle that covers his frame.

Bucky freezes when Rogers looks his way, meets Bucky's stare with blue, blue eyes.

As the others had sized up their opponents and started forming alliances, Rogers had kept to himself all through the days leading up to the Games; he'd sat in the corner of the training rooms all day, had stared up at the ceiling unseeing and unmoving, until it was time to go. Even the other tribute from his district hadn't seemed to be able to get through to him.

During the interviews, Rogers had been a different person. Charismatic, personable, charming. Everything the cameras wanted to see.

Bucky can understand why people still love Steve Rogers, even eleven years down the line. Can't shake his own fierce admiration, the tug of _something_ he's felt deep in his gut ever since he first saw the scrawny boy fall to his knees and stare at the sky after it was all over.

He wonders what Rogers did to impress the judges this time around. His score is high enough that Bucky doesn't doubt he has sponsors falling over themselves to send him something before anyone else.

Another second ticks by, and another, sending Bucky closer and closer to another fight for his life.

During his own games, Bucky got lucky. He was older than most of the other tributes, so close to eighteen he could almost taste it. He was strong, had already been doing physical labor for years that gave him an edge over his competitors.

That won't be the case this time, he realizes. He's still young – his games were only two years ago – but so are a good number of the other tributes. He's not facing children this time, terrified of killing and terrified of dying and so young it's almost painful to remember. This time, he's facing victors. Men and women who've gone through the Games and survived. People who have darkness buried inside themselves no matter how much the Capitol tries to hide it behind makeup and glamorous clothing.

Bucky hates having that darkness inside himself; hates even more that he's a few heartbeats away from letting it engulf him, letting that darkness rise up and take control so that he can survive long enough to see his family one more time.

He wonders, briefly, if Rogers can see the turmoil inside of him when their eyes meet.

Rogers shakes his head once with an inscrutable look on his face.

Their eyes are still locked when the Games begin, and Bucky tenses before launching himself from the platform.

The other tributes are in motion, too, and Bucky grabs at the first pack he runs past.

He's knocked off his feet a second later and he hits the ground hard enough that the breath is forced out of him. Bucky's still gasping like a fish and trying to roll to his feet when the other tribute raises a massive battle axe over her head. He thinks, _so this is it_ when she starts her downward swing, prays that his family will still be okay, even with him gone, and curses himself for letting his guard down so soon.

He doesn't shut his eyes, so he sees it when the axe is knocked off its course by something bright and shiny moving at high speed. The noise it makes upon impact is like a song, high and ringing. The tribute is knocked to the ground before Bucky can blink, shoved aside by the massive bulk of Rogers' shoulder. It's all Bucky can do not to gape as Rogers pulls him to his feet and begins dragging him out into the forest where the bloodshed won't start for a while yet.

Rogers shoves something into Bucky's hands – a rifle – and keeps them marching away from the violence of the cornucopia.

As they walk, Bucky holds his questions and watches the silent, graceful way Rogers moves. He's almost like a dancer, light on his feet as he glides through the branches and underbrush. Following behind him Bucky can see his weapons, too: there's some kind of knife strapped to his waist and a large metal disk as wide around as his shoulders strapped to his forearm.

It must be what Rogers used to knock the axe aside.

They stop after two hours, hiding themselves away in the branches of a tree where the leaves block them from view below, tucked close together on a branch about thirty feet up. They're both focused as they sort through the contents of their packs, cataloging their supplies with efficiency learned years earlier.

There are a few packets of dried foods, a canteen of water each. Steve's pack has a length of rope, and Bucky is surprised to find a fire starter in the outermost pocket of his backpack. Steve offers a smaller black bag once they've finished exchanging food, and Bucky inspects it. Inside is a box of ammunition and he quirks his head in Rogers' direction.

"You got me the rifle," Bucky says slowly. "Why?"

Rogers shrugs. "You didn't practice with it. Used everything else, but never the rifle."

"Maybe I don't know how to use one."

The laugh Rogers barks out is startling, but Bucky learned long ago to hide his reactions during the Games. Sponsors like a tribute who isn't rattled, one who promises to win. Jumping at every unexpected noise doesn't contribute to that image.

Bucky shouldn't feel so giddy when the other victor says, "I was watching you," but he does, feels butterflies low in his traitorous stomach. "You may not have practiced with it, but you paid attention to everyone else who went close," Rogers shrugs. "I had a hunch."

Bucky stares at him a little longer before he finally nods and settles a little more fully against the trunk to examine the rifle. It's in good shape, feels light yet solid in his hands. He doesn't doubt there's some way for the Gamemakers to shut it down if some extra drama is needed or he starts getting any ideas, but it's reassuring nonetheless to have it.

They stay in the tree long enough to rest and get their bearings, and even so soon into the Games Bucky feels scarily calm with the situation. Having Rogers on his side isn't something he'd considered but he's grateful to have the older man watching his back, even if only temporarily.

"Rogers," he says later as they're hiking east. Rogers is beside him now, and his hand brushes Bucky's often enough that he's fighting back a blush. It takes an embarrassing amount of willpower not to curl his fingers around Rogers' each time it happens to see what the other man's reaction would be.

The man looks back with a smile, tells him, "You can call me Steve."

Bucky tries the name out, rolls it slowly on his tongue. "Steve. Why'd you pick me? There are better people to have for allies out here. Romanov. Or Thor. Stark-"

Steve interrupts him with a hand to his shoulder and a wry smile. Bucky gets lost in the bright shine of his eyes for a moment, the way they seem alive for the first time that Bucky can remember. "Part of my master plan. Besides. Natasha, Clint and Thor were conspiring from day one of training, and Stark's been glued to Rhodes' side for twenty years. That's not changing just because they're competing now. Not yet, at least."

"I watched your Games. You were…you're still _good_. A lot of people who get through what we have just…aren't. Not after." Steve waits until Bucky meets his stare to continue. "And I wanted to meet you, but you were either on your tour or you weren't in the Capitol or I was busy, and I never got the opportunity. When your name got picked, I knew this might be my only chance. So I took it." Steve's carefully still for a minute, and Bucky's reminded, suddenly, of just how little he knows.

Compared to Steve he's a toddler, doesn't know the first thing about some of these other tributes aside from their names and districts. Steve's had more than a decade to learn them, discover their strengths and weaknesses and secrets. Bucky's only just gotten adjusted to living in a house that doesn't threaten to let the elements in when a strong storm rolls through.

He freezes up when Steve crowds in close to him, backs up until he feels bark pressing into his spine and still Steve advances, leans down so their mouths are barely a centimeter apart.

Bucky closes his eyes, leans up just a little bit so that they're touching, sighs through his nose when Steve presses a little closer and tangles a hand in his hair.

It's too soon when Steve pulls their mouths apart and Bucky follows, unable to stop himself. Steve uses the hand on Bucky's head to hold him still, keeps their mouths close, and when Bucky opens his eyes again Steve's expression is serious.

"We've got a plan," he breathes only just loud enough for Bucky to hear, lips brushing Bucky's. "There's a group of us. We're escaping. Wanna end all of this."

"What?"

Bucky realizes then what Steve's doing, what Steve's _offering_. Bucky swallows hard, looks down at the steady rise and fall of Steve's chest as he puts it all together. He wonders how long they have until someone realizes they're not actually kissing. Wonders how many thousands of people have already started to form opinions on their 'doomed love'.

"We couldn't get past Pierce to talk to you alone," Steve says. "Before training ended. Do you want to come with us?"

His throat feels tight. "I- My family, I can't…"

"We have people who can get them somewhere safe, I swear. Do you want to come with us?"

Does Steve really even need to ask? Bucky barely contemplates it for another minute before he gives his response.

"Yes," Bucky tells Steve. "Of course."

Steve's forehead presses against his own, warm and damp with sweat from their trek. "Good." Steve stares at him then and Bucky feels trapped, pinned down by nothing more than blue eyes and a hopeful smile, and for a second it's hard to breathe.

"Steve…" But he doesn't have the words, doesn't know how to get out the thoughts racing through his brain. He sways closer, watches the way Steve's eyes dart to his mouth when he licks his lips.

He takes a chance.

Steve breathes in through his nose, surprised, when Bucky kisses him again but he doesn't reel back, doesn't go tense and push Bucky away.

Steve's fingers _do_ tighten in his hair, and he tugs Bucky closer with a hand at his hip. Bucky feels giddy when Steve's tongue nudges carefully at the seam of his lips and Bucky welcomes him in, revels in the feeling of having Steve wrapped around him.

They break away with quiet gasps and Steve presses his forehead to Bucky's shoulder. "We need to go if we're going to make the rendezvous," he whispers. Bucky nods, silent, and holds back a sigh when Steve presses a kiss to the corner of his jaw. "But we're talking about this once we're out, okay? This isn't- I'm not just doing this to get you to come along with us, James."

"Bucky."

Steve lifts his head, frowning, and Bucky can't help but laugh a little.

"Nobody calls me James. Not even my ma."

Steve nods, backs up a pace or two to pick up his forgotten shield. "Bucky. You didn't mention that during your Games."

Bucky shrugs, starts following Steve as he turns east and starts walking. This time, he doesn't fight it when Steve's hand brushes his and their fingers twine together. "Some things aren't for everyone. Just friends."


End file.
